


keep you like an oath

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Sex Work, M/M, No Sex, Panic Attacks, Relationship Negotiation, ableist murder attempt, grace is ace, harold is a disaster bi, internalized kinkshaming, past Harold/Grace, past john/omc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 08:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: The… paid companion… is foisted on Harold much like the dog.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to Morin and Maculategiraffe for cheerleading, and to Code16 for cheerleading and beta comments. 
> 
> If you see I missed any tags or important disclaimers, please do tell me!

Whatever Nathan might have to say about the subject, there is nothing that Harold's life lacks.

Admittedly, he misses Grace. In hindsight, she was right to break up with him. She deserved better. Still, Harold has everything he needs: his work, Nathan’s friendship, and the love of the dog Nathan foisted on him.

Curse Nathan’s inability to leave well enough alone.

The… paid companion… is foisted on Harold much like the dog. Harold wakes up one day to see a beautiful man kneeling beside his bed.

“Hello,” Harold says, at a loss for words. An assassin would probably have acted already, not to mention worn more clothes.

“My name is John,” the man says. He truly is extraordinary. Harold’s eyes helplessly trace the fluid grace he exudes even in complete stillness. “I’m a gift from a friend.”

At that, Harold sits up and snaps, “Don’t be absurd. Gifts are objects. You’re a human being.”

John’s eyes crinkle, so briefly that Harold almost misses it. “My services, then.”

“I hope you’re good at shelving books,” Harold says.

John rises. Agreeably, he says, “I can do that.” Of course he doesn't bother to put on so much as a stitch of clothing first, so that Harold is subjected to a morning of pointedly looking away from John’s form as he stretches to put books away.

~~

At the end of the first week, Harold decides to be the better man and graciously admit defeat. "Whatever Nathan is paying you," he tells John, "I'll double it if you go away."

It's not that John is vulgar or crass. Those traits, Harold would have had no difficulty ignoring. It's that John looms constantly on the edge of Harold's vision, somehow managing to convey without saying a single syllable that he'd be available for sexual gratification at the crook of a finger.

John raises his eyebrows. "That's a lot of money." His voice is mild.

Harold stares at him steadily and waits for John to get the point, which is that he doesn't care. John is becoming a distraction that Harold can't afford.

Finally, John names a sum. It's exorbitant.

Harold writes him a check. "There'll be another one next month."

John accepts it, examines it, and takes out his phone. He takes a picture and sends it. "Mr. Ingram said he'll double any counter-offer you make."

Harold stares at him.

Possibly John mistakes his outrage at Nathan for horror, because he adds, "I'm not going to take it. I don't need that much. I'm just curious how long it takes before you run out of place for all the zeros."

"I'll move to scientific notation first," Harold says automatically. Then he rubs the bridge of his nose. "You could simply tell me what compensation would satisfy you, since you have an upper limit. I promise you I'm more stubborn than Nathan. This will save time and effort for everyone involved."

The smile on John's face is like getting bitten by a mosquito somewhere impossible to scratch. "Now you're just challenging my professional etiquette, Harold, not to mention my skills. I can't let that lie."

Harold's outraged expression probably speaks for itself. "Go away," he tells John.

With another one of those smiles, John says, "Sure thing, Harold." He walks away with a swaying motion that leaves Harold with a terrible headache and an erection that won't subside.

~~

"Are you going to thank God for Ms. Carter again," Harold states rather than asks, wary. Nathan's got that enraptured look on his face again, the one that means his favorite asset has found him a new way to save lives and incidentally dump a metric tonne of work into Harold's lap.

"I'm the luckiest sonuvabitch in the whole world," Nathan says placidly. "First I get you, then I get Carter. Someone up there likes me."

"Your player cheated when he rolled your charisma stats, you mean," Harold mutters, sullen. "If you're so grateful, you might express it by removing your professional _pest_ from my house."

"He was supposed to be a _gift_ ," Nathan says, frowning. Then his expression smooths out. "You work so hard, Harry. You deserve someone being nice to you."

Through gritted teeth, Harold says, "Perhaps you should try doing that, instead."

Nathan goes to his infuriating habit of pretending the last five minutes of the conversation never happened. "Anyway, we need a couple new features." He pushes a scribbled-on napkin toward Harold, who takes it.

For a very short time, he tried insisting that Nathan only give him finalized requirement documents. The end results, printed out, were heavier than his laptop and made less intuitive sense to Harold than Nathan's semi-random notes did.

"These aren't just a couple of new features," Harold says. He's not surprised: he was expecting something along the line of a service pack. This, though, is more like an entire version.

"We're reaching a brand new market!" Nathan says, beaming.

"Nathan. We've discussed this. They have to pay us to count as a market."

Nathan waves it off. "They're our _customers_ , Harry. The customer's always right."

"That doesn't make any-- you know what, fine." Harold slaps Nathan's notes on the table. He won't need the paper. The important parts are all in his mind. "But if your hire interrupts me while I'm working, so help me God, Nathan, I'm putting your Google history on the internet."

"You mean it isn't there already?" Nathan says in perfect deadpan. Harold sometimes misses the days when his crush on the man distracted him from how impossible Nathan could be.

Before Harold's halfway back home, he has the new design ready and glittering in his mind. A beautiful thought pattern, as shining and fragile as glass. It's immersive enough that Harold thinks of nothing beside it.

Nathan's original idea had involved hacking the CIA. While the idea was irresistibly intoxicating at first, Harold came to his senses soon enough and persuaded Nathan to take another course. People signed away bits and pieces of their privacy every day without a second thought. You couldn't get away with literal murder in the terms of service, but some breaking and entering was certainly possible.

Of course, some are savvy, or paranoid, or uninterested in any of the services that IFT has to offer. Harold himself is all three. Others haven't been able to use IFT software up till now because they didn't have a US social security number, which is what Ms. Carter brought up to Nathan. Those additional users would be overlooked by most development companies, as many of them didn't have much spare cash to spend on cellphone apps.

Cash, however, wasn't Nathan or Harold's goal.

At some point while Harold was busy writing stub routines, a sandwich materialized at his side along with a glass of water. Harold drained the latter, ruefully surprised to realize that he was starving and his back hurt from a long span of time in the same position. He stretched, wincing at his own popping joints.

"I do a mean backrub," John says. He's sitting on a couch next to Harold who, after ten years of pretending to work in a cubicle, has gotten very good at ignoring other people in his vicinity. "If you're taking a break."

"No, thank you." The words lacked Harold's usual venom. He did appreciate the sandwich.

John shrugs. "I'm going on a run soon, actually, if you need to stretch your bones."

In fact, a run sounds wonderful, but Harold doesn't have time right now. "I'm afraid not," he says, eyes already back on his screen.

On his way out, John pauses. "The thing you're working on. It's trying to reach undocumented immigrants."

"Among others, yes." Harold doesn't bother looking to see whether John approves.

"You still require an actual address," John says. "If these guys are homeless, they can't fill out your forms. Maybe add an option for a PO box or something."

That hasn't occurred to Harold. It'd been admittedly many years since he'd last been on the run without an address, and he didn't have to fill many forms at the time. "Thank you for your input. I'll consider it."

John doesn't respond. A few moments later, a door closes, and after that Harold stops paying attention to noises. He has work to do.

~~

The familiar crick in Harold's back tells him he fell asleep at his keyboard again. The gentle hand on the back of his neck, though, that's new.

"Come on."

He's being pulled up, and it's easier to obey than it would be to resist. He's half dreaming, led to his bed, laid down in it. A series of steps, familiar enough to drown him.

Harold closes his eyes and whispers, "No." He's not sure why he sounds the way he does, high and helpless. His voice hasn't been like this in decades.

"It's okay," John whispers in return. He pulls the covers over Harold. "Just sleep," and Harold does.

~~

The next morning, he gets breakfast in bed.

"Really?" Harold says, staring at the laden tray in front of him. The eggs are unfairly fluffy and golden.

John shrugs. "Seems like the best shot to get actual food in you. I think I'd need a crowbar to pry you away from your keyboard."

"Hah," Harold mutters. He has to do it around a mouthful of buttered bread, though, which probably detracts from the strength of his point.

Sad to say, John isn't wrong. Harold is definitely feeling better for decent food and decent sleep. He's more focused, sharper. Sharp enough to realize that the house has been cleaned at some point since yesterday morning.

"You're a housekeeper, now?" Harold says, sniffing at the air. It smells pleasantly floral.

"Mr. Ingram pays me to take care of you," John says. "I do what I can."

"Modesty doesn't become you," Harold says as he sits in his chair. He becomes engrossed soon enough that John's amused, "I'll bear that in mind," barely registers.

When Harold next surfaces, John is sitting cross-legged on the floor, possibly meditating. Harold takes a moment too long to look at him, the fan of his dark lashes against his cheek, how genuinely calm he seems. Maybe he'll be content to feed Harold and clean up after him, and cease his distracting attempts at... other things.

Of course, just thinking this is tempting fate. Harold is poking around, checking his changes in and updating his stream before delivery, when he makes the mistake of looking again.

John is doing some kind of yoga, is Harold's best guess. Why he's doing it in Harold's work room and not anywhere else is a question probably best left unasked. Harold doesn't know the names of the poses. The one John is doing now displays him in an unfairly attractive way, his chest thrust out, spine and legs stretched out, showing off functional strength, and (Harold swallows) flexibility.

He tears his eyes away, hoping John hasn't noticed. Possibly he'll stop soon, or go for a run, or for food, or for anything that doesn't involve displaying himself a few yards away from where Harold is attempting to get some work done.

The next time Harold looks, John has his shoulders and feet on the ground, arms braced to support him as his front is perfectly arched, giving Harold a blatant view of a cock that's either half erect or showy even soft.

Harold fixes his eyes on the screen ahead of him until he hears John padding off to another room, refusing to acknowledge the persistent pressure against his button fly.

~~

Day fades into night and Harold's arousal turns sour on him, leaving him in one of those moods where he's sick of his own body. He tries to talk himself into getting some exercise: rationally, he knows it will help.

Irrationally, he doesn't want to be helped, would rather stay locked in his own self-loathing.

He's just nearly convinced himself to go anyway when John smirks and says, "Want to go running?"

Harold clams up tight. "No." He turns his chair back to his desk, resolute now.

Behind him, he hears John sigh and move closer. Harold flinches when he feels a light touch on his shoulder.

A moment later, when John retreats, he turns around. "What?" he snaps.

"I'm starting to see why Ingram hired me." John's voice is glib, but there's a small frown on his face. "No offense, but if you keep going like this, you'll have a nervous breakdown."

"That's my affair." Harold turns to his screen.

Or tries to: John has reached out and snagged his chair. "It's my job to keep you happy," John says, "but it seems like I'm doing the opposite, and I don't understand why. Do you just not find me attractive?"

Harold glares at him. "You know I do."

John gives him a minute shrug in return. "Then what's the problem?"

Harold really doesn't want to have this discussion. "I'm not interested in sleeping with somebody who is paid to do it." That is a gross understatement, but Harold isn't about to elaborate.

John tilts his head. "You know, I do find you attractive. No, really," he says, when Harold tenses. "You've got good hands, and that super-intense thing you do is pretty hot. Also, I can tell you're smart. That's hot, too."

Harold crosses his arms, unimpressed.

John carries on. "You're not paying me to fake attraction."

"I'm not paying you at all," Harold mutters.

John ignores this. "If I didn't like you, on some level, I wouldn't have stayed in this job. Do you know how Ingram hired me?" He doesn't wait for Harold to respond. "I had a long term contract with another guy before. A hotshot lawyer, a real shark. He'd come home and half the time he was cursing the day Nathan Ingram was born, because he couldn't figure out how somebody who valued people over money became CEO of this huge, successful company."

Having a secretive genius at his back probably helped. Harold remains silent, curious despite himself to see where this is going.

"Then the lawyer and I ended our contract - nothing bad, he got a boyfriend who wanted to be exclusive - and I got an offer from Ingram." John holds Harold's gaze. Evenly, he says, "When I came to meet him, he wrote me a check for twenty thousand dollars. Said that it was for coming to meet him, that it was mine, whatever happened next, and that he was going to get coffee and if I wanted we could discuss a job offer when he came back."

That was very like Nathan. Harold rubbed his eyes. "We're doing a global minimum income program," he says. "He probably would've written you into the pilot, if you looked unwilling."

"Yeah," John says. "Point being, I wasn't." He sits down on the sofa, across the room from Harold, letting his legs splay. "This job lets me take care of people," he softly says. "I like that. I could take care of you, if you'd let me."

The words are sincerely meant. Harold can tell that much. He wishes he knew why they make him want to huddle in a tight little ball and never come out.

As it is, all he can do is shake his head helplessly. "No," he says, "no." He just manages to stagger out of the chair, leave the room before he can fall apart while John looks on, bewildered.

~~

It's not a good night.

Thinking about sex makes Harold physically sick. He thinks about Grace instead, remembering the smell of her shampoo, the sound of her laughter. He misses her so much that the longing is like a physical presence.

On nights like these, Harold is tempted to pick up the phone. Tell her that he's sorry, that he shouldn't have chosen his work with Nathan over her.

He can't forget their last conversation. She didn't cry, although her eyes were suspiciously bright. "You love the work you do," she'd said, "and I love that about you. But it'll always come first for you, and I can only be second for so long."

Right now, he'd dump IFT, Nathan, and every project he's worked on gladly to have her with him. At the same time, he knows himself. He'd only pick up another project the second he felt secure, something else to get lost in.

Grace was always so forthright and certain about the things she wanted. Harold misses that about her, the way she developed a career in art when everybody told her she'd fail. The way she told him, right at the start, she didn't like sex and would rather be alone than in a relationship with someone who expected that of her. The way she took in the world with single minded delight and let beauty flow out of her in return.

Damn Nathan. Up until his _stupid_ attempt to fix Harold up, he'd forgotten how lonely he'd become.

~~

The next morning, Harold emerges cautiously from his bedroom. There is a hearty breakfast set on the table, and John is nowhere to be seen.

John returns just as Harold's done eating, his shirt and hair damp with sweat. He goes showers and emerges fully clothes, sitting on the couch with a book in his lap.

Harold can appreciate an olive branch as well as anyone. "Thank you for cooking."

John looks up at him and smiles. It's a beautiful expression. Harold feels all right admiring it from across the room, safely distant. "Hey, I'm not going to live on hot pockets," John says. "Neither should you." He seems willing to let the other night go.

Perhaps Harold should as well, but he knows he'll just worry at it until he's made himself explicit. "I won't have sex with you." He says it with finality, bracing himself up for an argument.

John just says, "Okay," as easy as anything.

Harold blinks at him. "I admit, I was prepared for you to be much more difficult about this."

"Harold," John says, with exaggerated patience, "I get it. No means no. If you change your mind, or want something beside housekeeping, let me know. I'll leave you alone otherwise."

"Will you," Harold says, suspiciously.

John shrugs and goes back to his book.

Later that day, he sees John just as he's lacing up his running shoes, and finds himself saying, "Can I join you?"

John flashes him a genuine, if startled, smile. "Of course."

Running is not Harold's favorite activity, but he appreciate the way it clears his mind, leaves his body pleasantly sore. John could outrun him with ease, but he keeps his pace to one Harold has no trouble following. They don't talk.

~~

Once they settle into a routine, having John around is... nice. Harold can feel his own productivity going up due to improved sleeping, eating and exercise habits.

Nathan gives him a disgusted look when Harold says this. "I didn't hire him to make you more productive, Harold."

Harold raises an eyebrow. Nathan is a good man, but even with Harold at his back, IFT did not become a multibillion dollar international corporation solely because Nathan is nice.

"Well, all right, not _just_ to make you more productive." Nathan smiles at him. "You look _happy_ , Harry. Do you have any idea how long it's been?"

Harold shrugs. He could probably give an estimate. "The newest update is released."

Nathan beams at him and raises his water glass, which Harold clinks with a rueful smile. "Okay, so next up, I want you to give me a miracle."

"Must be Tuesday," Harold murmurs.

Nathan ignores this. "We have some sensitive projects, as you well know. I want a good indication of who might be a good - or terrible - to put in charge of them. As we don't have access to police records...." He spreads his hands.

Harold could hack into those, but that's not the issue. When Nathan says _sensitive_ , he doesn't mean classified: he means that the projects deal with vulnerable people in positions of weakness. The very worst types for those wouldn't have a criminal record. A padded bank account can hide any number of sins. "I'll see what I can do."

"On another note," Nathan says, "you wouldn't mind if I gave our John an additional task, right?"

The _our_ makes Harold bristle. "He's hardly mine. Do whatever you want."

It's only when he leaves the restaurant that he realizes Nathan may have done that on purpose, to distract Harold from asking what task, exactly, he had in mind.

~~

It's two AM, and Harold thinks he might be ready to admit defeat.

Perversely, the one thing that may be keeping him from doing so is John, who stands blinking in the doorway and asks, "Are you going to sleep?" while yawning.

"I think not," Harold says, eyes fixed on the screen. "It's a reprehensible pastime for weak minds."

John's laughter is quiet and brief, but it feels genuine. "You know, scratch nervous breakdown: I think Ingram hired me because he was worried about you becoming an evil overlord."

"The idea is growing on me," Harold says, swiveling in his chair. "Here, sit down. Be a duck."

John obeys, and, rather doubtfully, goes, "Quack?"

"Not--" Harold gestures broadly. "It's a, a term for a kind of debugging. I explain the problem to you in detail. You don't have to answer, or even respond. The idea is that the act of explaining the problem would clarify it to me, and help me come up with a solution."

John nods and gives him an expectant look.

"This isn't a software problem," Harold tells him. "I need to find a good man." He has a sudden mental image of himself carrying a broken lamp and wandering around the country wearing a barrel. God, he needs to sleep. "Or woman, or person -- someone who could be entrusted with the care of vulnerable individuals. No, worse," he interrupts himself. "I need a reliable method of finding such people. And given that I have, at best, a patchy background of any given person's history...." he trails off. "Well, that didn't help at all."

"Sorry?" John says.

Harold waves it off. "Not your fault. Nathan needs to understand I'm not actually superhuman. He'll live."

Mentioning Nathan's name put an intent expression on John's face. "Can I make a suggestion?" Harold mutely waves him on. "What about quizzes?"

"...Quizzes."

"Like ones in magazines," John says. "Or on Friendczar."

Perhaps John had a point about sleep. Harold suspects he might be hallucinating. "...Friendczar."

John waves his hand. "You know the type. Which kind of dog you'd be. What Hogwarts house." He pauses, then adds, "A German shepherd, and a Griffindor, respectively."

"John," Harold says with deliberation, "please go to sleep."

John shrugs and saunters away. The shoulder strap of his too-large undershirt falls as he does, drawing attention to the elegant line of his collarbone.

Harold turns sharply to his screen. He persists a few more moments before slinking to his own bed in shame.

~~

He wakes up at six in the morning brimming with ideas. John leaves him a sandwich and says something which Harold doesn't register, clicking away as he does.

When he finally looks up, it's evening, there is an empty plate beside his elbow, and John is nowhere to be seen.

Well. John is a grown man who can certainly mind his own affairs. Harold busies himself with administrative nonsense and the small backlog of bug fixes that have built up. Nothing absorbing enough to keep Harold from his bed.

Harold stays up anyway.

He jumps when he hears footsteps. Any hope that this might have passed unnoticed is shattered by John's amused, "It's just me."

Harold turns sharply in his chair. He just barely manages to quell the urge to ask John where he's been. Instead, he asks, "What's that?", nodding at the dry cleaning bag that John is holding.

"For my mission," John says with a straight face. "Apparently I'm to escort Ms. Zoe Morgan to the gala in two days."

Harold blinks. He knows Ms. Morgan, admittedly not well but he would have thought her capable of procuring her own dates. "I see."

"Nathan said you wouldn't mind," John says.

"I don't." Harold turns back to his computer.

A rustle of fabric gets him to look, however. This is a grave mistake, first because there is something fascinating about John in the process of donning a tuxedo, and then--

"Who on Earth picked that for you?" Harold exclaims. The suit nominally fits John, but it's too wide at the waist and too narrow at the shoulders. John looks likely to strain the seams: if the jacket doesn't rip, it will significantly constrain John's range of movement. "Take that off. I'll bring my measuring tape."

By the time it occurs to Harold that Nathan has played him like a fiddle, he's on his knees measuring John's inseam. John is standing very still, barely breathing. Harold purses his mouth and decides that he might as well finish taking John's measurements. At least John is wearing underwear, for once.

~~

The new suit arrives the next afternoon. John answers the door to receive it and saunters to Harold. "Want me to try it on?"

Harold rubs his eyes. He did not get much sleep last night. "You might as well." He is resolute not to be sorry that John goes to another room to change.

He doesn't even try to focus on his work, and just as well. When John arrives back in the room, fiddling with the bow tie he looks about twice as unfairly handsome as Harold expected him to be.

"Shall I help with the tie?" Harold says, resigning himself.

John gives him a sudden bright smile. "That would be nice of you."

Harold goes to stand behind John and fusses with his collar. Then he goes around to John's front to tie a proper bow. "Well," Harold says, retreating. "Let's look at you."

"If I'd known formalwear was your thing, I would've tried it ages ago." John's mouth turns up at the corners.

Harold beats a hasty retreat, putting most of the room between himself and that mouth. "I'm sure you'll do very well," he says.

~~

Harold gets himself a ticket to the gala. Nathan has been on his case to get out more, anyway.

He waits until John leaves to get dressed, choosing his outfit with deliberation. It's more fun than he'd like to admit: it's been a while since he had a good reason to dress up. He can't dress too nicely for most IFT functions, not without anyone asking where Sparrow from IT got the money for this sort of suit.

Bear whines at him, and Harold pets him, careful not to get fur on his suit. "You be good while I'm gone."

He takes a taxi to the gala, smiles at the woman who takes his ticket and his coat, and makes his way inside.

The reception is going on in full force. Harold gets himself a cup of sparkling water and watches society mill around him. The women's outfits are a tad repetitive for Harold's taste this season - everyone is trying to emulate, what's her name, some celebrity or other. The men are worse.

It's John that Harold spots first. Ms. Morgan dresses to blend in with the crowd - she's striking, certainly, but in a way that allows her to vanish behind the scenes when she wishes to.

Ms. Morgan is one of Nathan's elite team, along with Ms. Carter, the people whom Nathan dispatches to take care of the emergencies that Harold's software reports and in some cases, predicts. Ms. Morgan is very good at her job, and that's as much as Harold knows about her so far.

She's also beautiful. People who surround Nathan often are, with Harold as the exception that proves the rule. She and John make a very handsome couple: her leaning on his arm, the power in John's shoulders a beautiful contrast to Ms. Morgan's elegant hands.

Before he quite realizes he's doing it, Harold is close enough to John and Ms. Morgan that he can eavesdrop on their conversation.

"What about him?" John asks Ms. Morgan.

Ms. Morgan's gaze focuses on a man in a suit that's more tasteless than the room's average. "Without a question. Actually, that would be helpful." She smirks at John. "Do you want to seduce him, or shall I?"

"I can try, to begin with," John says easily. "You can step in if he needs extra persuasion."

They walk in tandem towards the man. The sudden nausea that Harold feels is the only thing that manages to break his horrified concentration.

"I think I need to go home," he mutters to absolutely no one, and makes his escape.

~~

Home is mercifully dark and empty, apart from Bear. Harold kneels shakily and presses his forehead into Bear's coarse fur. Bear whuffs and patiently endures Harold's fit of clinginess.

He tries to get up, but is overcome by a dizzy spell and the memory of John's confident voice offering unspeakable things. It's better to stay still; there is a real chance of him throwing up if he doesn't calm himself down.

"This is ridiculous," he mutters into Bear's fur. "This is _bullshit_."

For a little blessed while, the world is still and quiet. Then there is the sound of a glass settled on the coffee table.

Harold doesn't move and doesn't look up. "What," he says, too tired to even snap.

"There's some water over there for you," John says. His voice is soft, and Harold pathetically wants it draped over him like a blanket. "Do you need anything else?"

"Just privacy." Harold closes his eyes and prays that John will leave as silently as he came, that John will turn out to have been a bad dream after all. "Did you abandon Ms. Morgan at the party?"

"I had a sick friend to take care of," John says. "She understood."

Harold counts as he breathes: one, two, three, four, and out. If he concentrates on this, perhaps the nausea won't become worse. "I'm glad," he says, inanely. "But you might as well go back to her. I can see to myself perfectly well."

"You really don't look like you can," John says frankly. "I'm not explaining to Ingram why I let his star programmer hyperventilate to death." A moment later, something cool and smooth presses against Harold's cheek. "Drink," John says.

Harold takes the water. He drinks. To his surprise, it helps somewhat. "I think I'd like to go to sleep now." His voice shakes badly.

"Sounds like a plan." John takes the glass away from him and holds a hand. Harold allows himself to be helped to his feet. The ground feels like jello under him. "I want to help you get in bed. If I do, will I make this worse?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." But Harold lets John guide him to bed, lets him hold the blankets up so Harold can crawl underneath them.

For a long, unbroken moment John is just _there_ , standing right next to him, and Harold knows if John asked to be let into Harold's bed, Harold could not refuse him right now.

"Good night," John says, and turns off the light. "Call me if you need anything."


	2. Chapter 2

Harold wakes up at noon feeling congested. A few minutes after waking, John appears in the entrance to his room and lurks very obviously. Probably it's coincidence; it is highly unlikely that John either checked on Harold regularly like a real world polling mechanism, or that John has some special sense that alerted him to Harold's wakefulness.

"I've made soup," John says. "I'll bring you some if you can sit up."

Harold's first thought is, _That sounds lovely._ This is alarming enough that Harold shakes his head in an attempt to clear the thought away. "I can eat at the dining table, thank you very much. I'm not an invalid."

John shrugs. "Never said you were."

The soup, much like everything else John has made so far, is delicious. It's also chicken noodle, which makes Harold wonder again about John possessing extra senses. "I'm not really sick, you know."

John shrugs again. It's somewhat infuriating, or it would be if Harold weren't still pathetically grateful for the soup and the lack of questions. "You slept a lot," John says. "It's not like you. I figured it couldn't hurt."

Harold has a mental image of John getting up at dawn, going on his usual run. He must have noticed Harold was out of commission by around 10AM, to have managed to buy the groceries and cook. The thought makes Harold slightly guilty. He clears his throat. "I'm sure you're wondering about last night."

John watches him, silent and understanding.

"This doesn't usually happen to me," Harold begins, then halts. "No, I'm afraid that's not quite true. I've had similar experiences, if far less severe, several times in the last few months."

"Since I've been here." John's face is completely unreadable.

"Well-- yes," Harold says, uneasy.

John nods and focuses his attention on the food. He eats without haste, but still manages to finish his soup with impressive speed. "I can pack up now," he says, once his bowl is empty. "Or I could clear out and let you rest, get my things away while you're asleep or something. Or you can have them delivered if you want me to leave now."

"I don't want you to leave now." Harold is quite surprised at how difficult it is to keep from saying, _I don't want you to leave at all._ Which he won't. It's a ludicrous sentiment, considering all the trouble Harold has gone to in trying to remove John's presence from his life.

On the other hand, it seems like if he won't, then John will leave. And to Harold's surprise, that is something he would strongly like to avoid. "Perhaps I could do some thinking and see what triggered those fits," Harold says.

"Sure." Despite the word, John looks doubtful. Harold forces himself to take another spoonful of soup. It is very good soup, and that manages to distracts Harold somewhat from how John rises from the table, as though Harold was contagious.

No. As if John was contagious, and didn't want Harold to get hurt.

~~

John slinks off somewhere for most of the day. Harold lasts an hour before going back to work. What else is he going to do?

It's very late at night, and John is either hiding in the guestroom or still hasn't come back. Harold isn't sure which option is worse. Meanwhile, Harold is cold. This is quite unreasonable, as he keeps his house a comfortable temperature. Surely this must be true, as in Harold's recollection he hasn't felt cold once recently, and the days are only getting warmer.

Of course, with that thought, Harold is struck by the sense memory of a blanket being draped across his shoulders. Right. Of course that, too, was the work of John and his omniscient sense for whatever Harold needed.

Harold stabs viciously at his keyboard. He screws his eyes shut and rubs them, sighing. This will not do. He has to come up with a solution. He opens his eyes and stares at his screen, the caret blinking, multi-colored lines showing up on his debug prompt. He has a ludicrous flash of debugging himself, hooking himself up to a USB cable and examining exactly where he's going off the lines.

Or perhaps that's not so ridiculous, after all. Harold blinks, and considers.

Debugging, after all, isn't just running through the code in real time. When run-time debugging is not available, there are other methods. First, one must inspect the logs. Harold opens a document and lists all the episodes he can recall, their severity, and an instigating incident if one comes to mind.

The list Harold comes up with feels pitifully inadequate. He wishes he could install more detailed logging flags in his brain.

That gets him thinking of other forms of debugging. Reproducibility can make a bug that much easier to solve, and if nothing else, his response to John has been reliable. All Harold has to do is instigate a situation where John flaunts his sexual wiles.

The door to the guest room is dark and ominous. Harold reconsiders his assessment of how hard it would be to reproduce the conditions where the issue occurs.

Perhaps he can manage by himself, at least to begin with. Harold swallows and gives himself liberty to think of John in as much sexually lurid details as he wants.

His first attempt goes nowhere. His imagination can summon up a pornographic vision of John and him entwined in many acrobatic ways, but by themselves, the mental images do nothing. There's no heart to them, nothing to catch Harold's interest.

The next attempt features more specific scenarios. Harold recalls the morning he first met John, and attempts to imagine the outcome if he'd asked John into his bed instead of telling him to shelve books. Harold himself had only worn a ratty t-shirt and boxer shorts. He considers the heat of John's skin as he would have felt it through thin cotton.

Unease makes Harold's stomach roll. He blinks, watches the lights flickering on his router, banishing other thoughts until his stomach settles.

He could call this a partial success, at least. He managed to summon one of these fits on purpose, and if he can do that, he might more easily learn from it.

Harold rises from his chair and walks to the couch with unsteady steps. He's no longer nauseated, but he feels a pit of guilt opening in his chest. It feels - _wrong_ , somehow, to relive that situation without John's presence and his explicit consent. Even if Harold went no further than John had himself encouraged at the time.

Nothing to be done. Harold draws a deep breath, rises, and goes to knock on the guest room's door.

For a long time there is silence. Harold knocks again. Then, when no answer comes, he says, "I need your help. Please," feeling foolish with the suspicion that he might be speaking to an empty room.

Yet almost before the last word is out of his mouth, the door is yanked open. "Thank you," Harold says, feeling wrong-footed and just plain wrong.

~~

"You want me to do what?" John says, obviously skeptical.

"I realize it's a departure from my earlier requests." Harold's standing awkwardly, feeling out of place in his own guest room.

"You won't even sit next to me." John pats the extra space he'd made on the bed after sitting down. "And you think I should... what? Try to seduce you?"

"Those aren't the words I would've used. But," Harold swallows, "that's the general idea, yes."

"No offense, but I'm not going to touch someone who has a panic attack when thinking about me sexually."

Harold closes his eyes, letting white-hot mortification roll over him. "Of course." He turns to leave.

"Hey." At the touch of John's hand on his shoulder Harold startles. He turns around to see John, looking so compassionate that Harold wants to bury himself somewhere. "That doesn't mean I don't want to help. Come on. Let's talk about this."

Harold lets himself be herded back into the room.

John looks him over. It's not a sexual look, but an analytical one. "I think you're going about this the wrong way," John says. "Maybe a different approach would be better."

Harold spreads his arms. "By all means, make your ideas known."

John is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "Look, this kind of reaction doesn't usually come from nothing. Harold..." he hesitates, but says, "did something happen to you? Did somebody..."

"No!" Harold says, appalled. "Or. Well. I suppose...."

There are some periods of Harold's life when his memories are patchy: caring for his father when he grew ill, the few weeks Harold spent on the streets while on the run from the authorities as a teenager. But surely he would have remembered. "No," he says at last. "Nothing like that."

"All right," John says slowly. "What about your previous relationships?"

Saying _What previous relationships?_ would be appealing, but unhelpful at this junction. "The issue did not come up," Harold says.

"By which you mean..." John prompts.

Harold breathes deep, forcing himself to answer. He asked for John's help, after all. "I only had one long-term relationship," he says. "My partner wasn't interested in sex."

"I see." John gets up from the bed and paces, giving Harold some critical looks. Harold feels himself bristling, despite himself. "And what about short-term relationships? Or is that all of your experience?"

"I've had sex," Harold says, biting. Then he rubs his forehead and sighs. "Apologies. I find the subject difficult."

John says dryly, "So I've guessed."

"I've had a handful of one-night stands in college." Harold can remember them only vaguely. "I was usually high on something at the time," he admits. "I've dated a few people, but nothing very committed."

"Or very X-rated, I suppose," John says. Harold nods. "So as far as you know, this might always have been an issue for you."

An idea strikes Harold. "I suppose I could get drunk and try. With you," he clarifies.

John's face goes disturbingly blank. "You'll probably regret that the next day," he says. "Not my idea of a fun morning after." He pats Harold on the shoulder again. "Let's save that for a very last resort, okay?"

Harold nods numbly. John's help has been far more than Harold could've hoped. It does no good to be ungrateful, even if some part of Harold foolishly hoped for more progress.

~~

Harold sleeps for most of the next day, waking up intermittently to eat the food John left in the refrigerator and collapsing back into bed. When his mind unfogs sufficiently, he manages to be annoyed with himself for this self-indulgence.

He finally wakes up in the early AM, feeling about to burst with a new idea. He sits at his desk and works, hands flying on the keyboard.

Around 6AM John comes peering into the room. "Harold?" he says. "How long have you been up?"

"Three hours or so," Harold says, distracted. "Would you wait another half hour to go on a run? I should be done by then, and I'd like to join you." John nods, blinking. His hair is in complete disarray, and Harold is satisfied enough with his accomplishments to find it charming without suffering adverse effects.

The last five minutes before they go on the run are spent calling Nathan. "Get us a table for 8AM at the usual place," Harold says. After a brief hesitation he adds, "Make it a reservation for three. I have something interesting to show you."

"Good morning to you too, Harold." Despite the words, Nathan sounds pleased. As well he should be. Nathan knows by now that Harold demanding his attention this early in the day is usually an indicator of a breakthrough.

Of course, sometimes it's an indicator that their work has gone catastrophically wrong, but right now Harold is in too good a mood to consider this.

Running with John feels wonderful this morning. They run through the park, and it seems like everywhere around Harold the vegetation is greener than it was the days before, vivid and bright. The sun has dawned, low on the horizon, but John navigates them so that they aren't blinded by the glare of it.

After the run they have just enough time to shower before they need to leave. "You don't mind joining, do you?" Harold asks John, somewhat anxious.

"It's fine." John's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Won't Ingram mind?"

"If he wanted you to be kept ignorant of my work, he's a few months too late. Now come on, we need to get going."

Nathan is waiting at the cafe when they arrive. His eyebrows rise when he sees John following Harold, but his only other response is to greet them good morning. "What do you have to show me, Harold?"

Harold lets a small smile break out. "If you remember, a little while ago you set me a challenge: a way to reliably find good people to put in charge of sensitive projects. And I think I have it."

John leans a bit closer, eyes bright. Nathan looks expectant, waiting for Harold to pull out the latest rabbit from his hat.

"Now, the guiding principle," Harold begins, "is that to judge a person, we must observe their choices - and observe them when they don't think anyone is watching. For this end, I employ our usual tools - all the data that passes through their devices and our software, you're familiar with the idea.

"What's interesting is the choices that the software identifies. Specifically, it recognizes instances of the user being offered power - and notifies us when they refuse it."

"Really," Nathan says.

"It's obviously still in the prototype phase," Harold says. "But I think you'll see--"

"One moment, Harold." Nathan puts his hand up. "You're looking for instances of people giving up power?"

"Of course," Harold says. "It was quite blindingly obvious, in hindsight. Who deserves power? Certainly not anyone who wants it."

"I see," Nathan says slowly. John's face is a blank. "Harold, do you recall that we're billionaires, you and I?"

"I have looked at my bank statement in the last few years, yes. What does this have to do with...." Harold trails off with a sinking feeling.

"Money is power, and I haven't exactly given all of mine to charity. The first person this program of yours would declare unfit for their position is me," Nathan says. "And then you. And it's going to give us a lot of people who don't actually want to do the work we give them, and what will we do then?"

Harold gets up, so quickly he rattles the table. "I need to go."

John catches up with him at the cafe's door, but he says nothing, only accompanying Harold on their way home.

~~

Harold spends the following hours sulking in his bedroom, huddled in his blankets and typing half-heartedly on his laptop. He wishes he could apply a less embarrassing description, but he has been dishonest with himself quite enough.

Eventually, his self-imposed exile is brought to an end with a tentative knock on the door. Harold breathes deep and reminds himself snapping would be unkind. "Yes?"

The door opens a fraction. John peers through it. "It's getting close to dinner time and you haven't eaten anything today."

"You're not wrong. I'll be out directly." As Harold begins the involved process of unwrapping himself from his blanket nest, John opens the door. On his other hand a tray is balanced, containing a bowl of - Harold squints - stir fry. "Do you have a reason for your particular insistence on feeding me in bed?" Harold asks as John makes his way inside and sets the tray in front of Harold.

"Just want to be helpful," John says. "Does it bother you?"

It does, a little, but Harold doesn't want to consider why at this point. "You could distract me, if you wanted to help."

The words come out bitter and Harold regrets them as soon as he hears himself, but John only nods. "Sure. Anything in particular?"

"How did you wind up in this line of work?" Harold quickly adds, "If you're comfortable telling me. If it's not too unpleasant to talk about. And sit down, for goodness' sake, if you're staying in the room."

John sits down on the bed beside Harold, who swallows. He wasn't quite counting on the proximity when he offered John a seat. John smiles, a small, rueful expression. "It's fine. If you want to know, I used to be in the army."

Harold blinks. "That is not what I would have expected."

John's smile becomes a tiny bit warmer. "Figured as much. My life isn't such a tragedy, Harold." He carries on regardless of Harold's somewhat dubious look. "I was in the army for a couple of tours. Ended up in Intelligence." He takes a breath. "Spent a month there, then my partner told me to get lost before I got myself - and her - killed."

Harold's eyebrows climb up nearly to his hairline. "Did she. And she suggested your current line of work?"

John snorts. "She suggested I go to med school, actually. Said I was too soft for fieldwork but they'd love me there."

"I see," Harold says faintly. "Did you?"

"Gee, Harold, what do you think?"

Harold ducks his head, irritated with himself. But before he can apologize, John says, "Actually, why are you even asking me? Aren't you some kind of super hacker?"

"I'm hardly a hacker," Harold says. "I'm a programmer. Completely different line of work." He pauses and adds, with some reluctance, "Admittedly IFT products give us a great deal of data on our users. Who are nearly everyone. But it would hardly be polite to investigate you this way."

John shrugs. "Feel free to look me up. I don't have anything to hide." He gives Harold a conspiratorial glance. "The US government might, but I have a feeling you won't sell anything to terrorists."

"You don't have to tell me the rest, if you're uncomfortable," Harold says. "You don't have to tell me anything."

"I don't mind. Appreciate the sentiment, though." John looks at the ceiling, leaning backwards on his elbows. "So what happened was, I left. Drifted around for a while. I ended up living next to this older guy - he needed a little help sometimes, around the house. Carrying in groceries, that sort of thing. And one day, I heard some weird noises over from his apartment."

"I see," Harold says, fascinated and appalled in equal measures.

"At first it just sounded like someone having a good time," John continues, "but then it started sounding like someone getting rough."

"Oh dear."

"Yeah. So I forced the door, and inside I see that guy and some stranger, both of them half naked and the stranger holding my guy by the throat. I," John clears his throat, "may have gotten a little carried away."

Every new fact John reveals seems to take them further from where John ended up: and yet, here John is. Harold keeps quiet and only nods.

"Anyway, so I got rid of the other guy and helped my guy calm down. He wasn't badly hurt, mostly just shaken, a few bruises. And I got the story out of him. Turns out that other guy was someone he found on a classified ad. Said he'd, ah, help my guy out. You know." John makes a gesture reminiscent of masturbation. He's looking amused again, probably at the expanse of Harold's discomfort. "They agreed on a price, but afterwards the other guy tried to rob him. So I told my guy, you don't have to do that again."

Harold blinks, caught by surprise. "Pardon?"

"It's dangerous," John says. And like it's nothing outside the ordinary, adds, "And I told him if he needed help - any kind of help - to come to me. It took him a few months, but he took me up on it. Insisted on paying me, too. I thought that was sweet of him. Oh, don't look like that."

Harold has no idea what he looks like, but if it's half as shocked as he feels, his expression must be something to behold. His horror only increases when John says, "I used to do similar stuff in the army. Sometimes the best way to get someone to talk is pillow talk. I was good at that part."

"Were you," Harold says, weakly.

John's smile turns sly. "I like to think I still am." Said smile dims somewhat as he takes in Harold's response. "I'm not a very good distraction, am I?"

"On the contrary," Harold says at once. "You are exceptionally distracting. I can barely remember what I needed distraction from."

That reply makes John's smile increase again, and Harold is somewhat upset at how pleased he is with that. "Anyway, once I'd started doing that, it seemed like something to do. Make people happy by being soft." He waggles his eyebrows at Harold. "Or hard, as the case might be."

Desperate to change the subject, Harold asks, "Is there anything about the army you miss?"

John looks up and considers. "I miss feeling like I was making a contribution," he says at last. "Making people happy is nice, but it's not saving anyone's life."

"I suppose not," Harold says. Abruptly, he says, "I apologize. I have no right to your private life, and even less right to react so strongly to events primarily affecting you."

"I told you I don't mind," John says. "But if this subject is bothering you, we could always switch. I know, you should tell me more about what you were muttering about while you worked."

"I was not--" Harold pauses, and deflates slightly. "I suppose I was. The issue is, web programming is a wretched hive of scum and backwards incompatibility...." He keeps going for quite a while. If John is bored, he shows no sign of it - on the contrary, he asks questions and seems engaged.

~~

Harold attempts to sleep in the next day, only to be awakened by his phone ringing. Nathan, of course. Nobody else has this number.

"I'd like to borrow John again," Nathan says, after the usual niceties.

Harold rubs his eyes. He really isn't awake enough for this. "For what purpose?" His tone comes out harsher than he meant, hostile.

After a notable but short silence, Nathan says, "Carter needs a hand with one of our field cases."

Harold sighs. "Does the help involve anything sexual?"

"Aw, Harold." He can imagine Nathan's smile across the line. "Are you jealous? No, nothing like that. She just needs an extra pair of eyes."

"Don't you have anyone else you can use?" He regrets the words even as they come out. "No, nevermind. I'll ask him."

"Already did," Nathan says, cheerful enough that Harold wants to strange him. "He seemed pretty happy about it, actually. Maybe you need to keep him more active, Harold."

"I'll keep that under advisement," Harold says, and hangs up without saying goodbye. If he's being petty, he'll be petty all the way.

By the time Harold coaxes himself out of bed, John has left already. Harold spends half an hour trying to work before he mumbles some profanities and lets himself into their casework database. It's no trouble to find the case most accessed by Ms. Carter on the last few days, and Harold opens the attached files.

Not all their cases turn out to be violent crimes, although the search heuristic Harold put in place is steadily improving, if he does say so himself. The evidence in this case, however, is fairly alarming: an encrypted (by IFT software) email to a throw-away address with a picture, a name, a date and a time, and a large cash transfer (via an IFT app). The date is today, the time is an hour or so from now.

The name is Mackenzie Greenberg. Searching it finds a locked FriendCzar page; searching the address returns the FriendCzar page of one Vanessa Greenberg. One of the first pictures on it shows two smiling women, one of whom is using a wheelchair and an oxygen tank. The picture is captioned "Mac and Me." Scrolling further down the page, Harold finds out the younger Ms. Greenberg has answered several joke questionnaires regarding the name she would use if she were a stripper; this reveals her mother's maiden name and her first pet's name. Harold uses these to log into the Greenberg home's security system, including access to security cameras and an intercom.

(He did not lie to John when he said he wasn't a hacker. This was too easy to really count as hacking.)

Some light snooping indicates that the Greenberg sisters live together. As Harold watches, Vanessa helps Mackenzie put her shoes on. "The nurse Bob sent will be here any minute," Vanessa says.

A short search on Vanessa's FriendCzar leads Harold to one Robert Aldrin, who has commented on nearly everything Vanessa has posted in the last six months.

"So you can let her do this," Mackenzie says, slightly slurred but intelligible. "Go enjoy your day off, dumbass."

"What, you want her to think I can't even help you lace up shoe? C'mon." With marked efforts from both sisters, Mackenzie is moved from her bed to her wheelchair.

No sooner than they're finished the doorbell rings. Vanessa straightens and smooths her hair. "Are you sure--?"

"Shoo," Mackenzie says. "I have a babysitter, I'll be fine."

The person at the door does look like a nurse. Harold wonders if perhaps they made an error. This wouldn't be the first time. However, the fact of the disposable email address troubles him. Surely a legitimate nurse would have a permanent address?

"Hi, come on in," Vanessa says, opening the door. "This is Mackenzie, I'll show you where everything is." After giving the nurse a quick tour of the house, Vanessa leaves. The camera outside their door catches her getting into a red Mustang.

Almost as soon as Vanessa is gone, there is a knock on the door. Harold switches to the outside camera again and blinks to see John in a white orderly's uniform. "Hi," John tells the very unimpressed looking nurse. "I'm from the agency, I came to see if you needed any help."

"I can manage fine, thank you." The nurse's voice is not warm.

"Let him in," Mackenzie says. "Or the agency might call my sister, and she'll worry."

The nurse turns to Mackenzie and, in a sugary tone, says, "See, sweetheart, this is a strange man we don't know. It's not safe to let him in."

Even less impressed than the nurse, Mackenzie says, "If you don't let him in, my sister will probably be back here in half an hour. We've had people from the agency before."

The nurse freezes for a moment, undecided, then yanks the door opens. "Fine," she tells John. "Don't get in my way." John's expression is awfully familiar as he finds a place to sit; it's the same one he wore whenever Harold tried to bribe him away.

Nothing much happens for a while. Harold is all but lulled into complacency when the nurse declares, again in that sing-song voice, "Time for your medication, sweetheart!" The intercom microphone does not catch Mackenzie's reply, but Harold doubts it was pleasant. The nurse pulls a dark bottle out of her bag and uncaps it, pouring a clear liquid into a spoon.

"What's that?" Mackenzie says, sharply. "My meds are in the cabinet."

John straightens in his chair. "What are you giving her?"

"Yeah, what are you giving me?"

"You're not here to see to her medication," the nurse snaps at John. To Mackenzie, despite the nurse's clear irritation, her voice is saccharine when she says, "Don't you worry about that. This will make everything better."

Quick as a flash of lightning, John is out of his chair and grabbing the bottle of medication. "This doesn't have a label on." He sniffs it. "Smells like almonds. Seriously? Cyanide? That's what you're going with?"

Instead of replying, the nurse drops the spoon and pulls a gun out of her bag. She manages to shoot twice, just past John's head, before he takes the gun from her and lays her out with a punch.

"Cool," Mackenzie says as John produces zip ties from some unknown location and secures the nurse's wrists with them. "Hey, when you're done, can you give me my actual medication?"

~~

In his home, Harold pries his hand off the chair armrest one finger at a time. He feels oddly light, as though he might float away.

On the screen before him, Vanessa is hugging her sister and shouting tearfully at Mr. Aldrin. Harold can't quite parse what she's saying. He supposes it doesn't matter, as Mr. Aldrin and the false nurse are being led away by the police under the calm guidance of Ms. Carter, John trailing after them.

Harold continues watching dumbly as Vanessa comes inside and prepares a meal for her and her sister. There's nothing outside the ordinary about it, a family eating together, and yet Harold feels the weight of a kitchen knife in his hand, smells mildly burnt sauce.

The last time he cooked, really cooked anything more substantial than microwaving a meal, it was for his father.

Vanessa begins to cut Mackenzie's burger for her. Mackenzie fends her off. "I can do that. I'm disabled, not totally helpless."

_Helpless_. The word rings out in Harold's ears, echoing oddly. Little points of light burst in the corners of his eyes. He shuts down his surveillance of the Greenberg home with jerky movements.

He recalls John saying, laughing, "My life isn't such a tragedy." Imagines him saying, "I'm not helpless." Harold flinches and realizes his fingernails have dug into the flesh of his palm.

That was a very powerful word for Harold, once upon a time. He remembers being still in grade school, reading _Peter Pan_ , lingering over the parts where pirates held the characters captive. He imagined them all tied up in rope, and revisited that thought over and over.

It's been a very long time since Harold has thought about this. He makes his way to the couch on shaky legs, trying to force himself to pursue this line of thought despite the growing terror in his belly.

The watchword remained _helpless_ all through his adolescence. The means of rendering helpless the unnamed people in Harold's fervent imagination became more elaborate, more complete. People made into statues, directed by magic, puppets coming to life without the ability to shed their strings.

In his defense, he was very young. He didn't know, then, what helplessness truly meant: that helplessness meant bedsores, it meant the inability to control what one ate and when one urinated and what one said. Helplessness was not a fate to be wished on anyone. No matter how much you wanted to keep them.

The door opens with a bang and John lopes inside, smiling so brightly that Harold can barely look at him. "Harold," John says. "You'll never guess what happened today."

~~

John smiles even wider to hear that Harold was watching him; he practically preens. He also gives Harold the rest of the story - Mr. Aldrin was apparently keen to court Vanessa Greenberg, but less keen to share a house - and Vanessa's time - with Mackenzie. For this purpose, he hired a hitwoman masquerading as a nurse.

"I have no idea how he thought he'd get away with it," John says with a shrug. "Guess money is no guarantee of brains."

For once, it's Harold sending John to sleep. John looks like if it were up to him, he would've stayed up the entire night. Harold spends a minute looking at the guest bedroom's closed door, before taking a deep breath and getting his phone.

Nathan answers on the second ring. "Hello?"

"The system you wanted me to make," Harold says, without preamble. "For finding good people. You wanted it to find more assets, didn't you?"

Nathan doesn't dwell on pleasantries, or the lack thereof. "Yes, I did. You have something for me?"

"Someone." Harold's mouth feels painfully dry. "Did you know John's background, when you sent him to me? Did you know he used to be a soldier?"

"Can't say I did," Nathan says. "You're nominating him as an asset, are you?"

"Mostly I wonder how it took both of us so long to notice he'd be perfect for the role."

"Hey, I can be excused for missing it. You're supposed to be the genius. Not to mention, the one living with him." The smile in is audible in Nathan's voice, and yet Harold doesn't feel particularly merry.

"Perhaps I didn't want to give him up," Harold says. He is not smiling.

If Harold's voice sounds at all odd, Nathan makes no note of it. "Put him on the phone, I'll ask if he's interested."

"No. Let him sleep. Call in the morning." Harold hangs up. He glances in the direction of his bedroom, then goes to his computer. He doubts he's going to get any sleep tonight, anyway.

~~

By the angle of the sun in the windows, it's mid-morning when Harold wakes up. He dimly remembers dragging himself to bed around 3AM so John wouldn't feel obligated to help him.

The house is empty. Harold sits next to his computer and takes a deep breath, forcibly releasing the tension in his shoulders. He may as well get used to being on his own again.

Around noon, Harold makes an executive decision and calls for take out. He very briefly entertains the thought of ignoring lunch altogether; however, he then imagines John coming back to feed him out of pity, and finds himself quite able to phone a restaurant.

After eating, Harold returns to his computer. He opens an empty email and blinks at the blinking cursor.

" _Dear John_ ," he writes, and deletes, and writes again. Then tears his eyes from the beginning line and forces himself to write through the rest.

Writing is helpful. It's clarifying. Typing down _painful past experiences_ and _the only way I am capable of processing desire_ makes the ideas more concrete somehow, as though Harold could reach out and grab them.

At last, he runs out of words, and returns to the opening. "Dear John," he says, testing the words out loud.

"Yes?" John says, directly behind him. His arms steady Harold, who would otherwise have fallen to the floor.

"What on Earth are you doing here?"

"I live here," John says.

Harold stares at the floor. "Oh," he says. "Of course, I wasn't thinking. You'll be wanting to pack before you leave."

"Kicking me out, Harold?" A ghost of a smile rests on John's face. "I thought we were past that."

Harold blinks rapidly. "Of course you're welcome to stay for as long as you'd like," he says. "I was just - not expecting that to be any length of time, now that you have a new role."

John sighs. "Come sit on the couch with me, Harold." He holds up a bakery box. "I brought dessert."

Once they are both seated, John asks, "Was that email you were writing for me?"

"Yes." Harold swallows. "I don't suppose I would have had the courage to send it, after all. But you may as well read it, if you want." Harold takes his phone out of his pocket, opens the email draft and clicks _send_.

John takes out his own phone and begins to read. Harold takes a doughnut out of the box but doesn't eat it, watching John's face instead. He might as well have eaten: John's face is completely devoid of expression, no movement except his eyes rapidly scanning the text.

At last John puts down his phone. "I wouldn't have figured you for a dom," he says. "And I have a pretty good radar for these things, I think."

Harold stares at his doughnut as though it holds the secrets of the universe. It has pink icing. "Well, bear in mind that it's been years since I allowed myself to think about even having sexual proclivities. I intentionally buried this as deep as humanly possible. But by all means, doubt what I'm telling you because your 'radar'," he air-quotes, "says otherwise." 

John raises his hands. "Not doubting you. Just making an observation." He looks at Harold, curious and frank. "You'd probably be good at it. You're creative, you're careful. Good with your hands."

Now, in addition to the gnawing pit in his stomach, Harold has to endure this conversation while red as a tomato. Wonderful. "I'm so glad you approve." He wishes that was pure sarcasm. "But the fact remains that my desires feel inherently unethical to me. Even if I posit that one can both desire power and wield it ethically, which I sincerely doubt, I can't disentangle the focus of my attraction from the harm my desires would do if applied in reality. Perhaps I can cultivate a sexuality more palatable to my sense of ethics--"

"If you could, you probably would have by now," John says. 

Harold acknowledges this with a tilt of his shoulder. "Indeed. As it is, it is probably best for me to avoid the subject of sexuality altogether."

John places the doughnut box on the coffee table and gets up to pace. "Let's see. You realize most people who do power games don't actually do any damage, right? It's all pretend. Are you saying you're not interested unless it's for real?"

"I'm saying that the pretense would still have me thinking about very real repercussions, and that I'm still not convinced that it's harmless in and of itself." Harold takes a deep breath. "It's really all right, John. If you accepted Nathan's proposal, you have a new job now, which is not seeing to my emotional insecurities."

John doesn't bother responding to the last part. Instead, he sits down next to Harold, who startles as John lays his hand on top of Harold's. "Look at me," John says, softly.

Harold looks at John's hand, which is within the letter of the request. John's knuckles are still bruised, and they're scarred besides, a legacy of violence that makes Harold ache for him. 

"Yeah," John says. "This is power, too. Do you think I'm a worse person for using it?"

The question feels sincere. "Of course not. You were trying to save Ms. Greenberg's life."

"Yeah, and it wasn't some kind of sacrifice. You saw, Harold. I was having _fun_." John does not sound repentant. "What does that tell you about me?" 

Harold covers John's hand with his own, daring. "You're a good man, John."

"I try to be," John says. "But you try harder than anyone I've ever met. That has to count for something, right?" He briefly smiles, but the expression wobbles and dissipates. "Sexuality matters, Harold. Yeah, not for everyone," he waves off Harold's objection before Harold can make it. "But for a lot of people, and I think you should try for that, too. If not with me," John briefly looks aside, "then with someone else, or on your own. But try." 

"You have another job now," Harold says, after a moment of shocked silence. 

"It's going to keep me busy," John agrees. "But not so busy I can't have other things in my life. You're not just a job, Harold." His hand tightens over Harold's. "You haven't been for a long time now."

"This is Nathan's charisma stat rubbing off on me," Harold says, still stunned. "There's no other explanation for this."

"Hey, I'm down with polyamory, but I think you have a way to go before you let anybody rub off on you. Oh, come on, you walked right into that one," he says as Harold groans. 

It takes Harold a moment to regain his composure. Then he says, "Do I understand correctly that you're suggesting to enter an intimate relationship with me? One that isn't a business transaction?"

Now John groans. " _Yes_ , Harold. Christ. For a genius, you can be kind of obtuse, you know that?" And then, with some hesitation, "Do you want to?"

Harold stares at John. "Don't be absurd, of course I do. But you do realise," he flounders, "it's going to be some time, that is, there is certain difficulty--"

Harold is struck silent by John stroking his arm. "Harold. I get it. I've known you for a while, remember? I have an idea of what I'm signing on for. If I wanted to pick what's easy over what matters, I'd make different life choices." 

It's not even evening yet, and still Harold is exhausted. "I think I'm going to nap," he says. He looks at his phone, where his email to John has remained open. With a start, he realizes: "Although we haven't addressed--"

"Harold," John says, "that email is like fifty pages long. Go rest. This isn't an interrogation, I'm not going to keep you up until we've unpacked everything in there."

"All right. I'm going." With what feels like great daring, he adds, "Would you care to join me?"

~~

Despite fatigue, Harold is taking some time to fall asleep. Another body in his bed is something that will take some getting used to. He doesn't mind. The weight of John's arm over his stomach, offered tentatively and accepted gladly, is very reassuring. 

"We can go as slow as you want," John murmurs. "We can try doing little things, see if we can get you to associate sexuality with happy things instead of what you have going now."

"That sounds like a good course of action." Harold's eyes are closed. He doesn't particularly mind if he stays awake. The bed is warm, and John is warmer. There will be time for experimentation when Harold is less tired, and there's nothing requiring his attention right now. He can rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers:  
> \- Harold's espousing ableist views in this fic. No control over what you eat isn't a result of helplessness, it's a result of ableism in care.  
> \- Also, Harold a crapload of internalized kinkshame in this fic. There's nothing actually inherently unethical about BDSM.   
> \- Sex workers don't usually fall in love with their clients, and clients should not send them 50 pages long emails about their feelings unless that's been explicitly negotiated.


End file.
